Page 45 of Plot Twist
“Over here, Dash!”
He turned to each voice that shouted his name and cracked a soft, barely perceptible smile that would photograph well and enhance his cheekbones. He hated that he knew so much about his angles but couldn’t remember what he’d had for breakfast.
“Dash, where have you been?”
“What’s next for you?”
“Is it true you’re going to be in your brother’s new film?”
“Dash, can you confirm that you were recently seeking treatment for drug abuse?”
Dash’s heart stopped, and so did his breathing, or at least it felt like that. Except for his mind, which whirred frantically at the words he swore he just heard.Drug abuse. Seeking treatment.What the actual fuck?
His mouth opened, but he forced it closed and swallowed down a panicky lump in his throat. What would his mom do in that moment? She wouldn’t react. She’d almost not hear the question and just continue to pose. But he was having a hard timenotreacting. He was starting to shake—a little vibration—and he shoved his hands firmly into his pockets as he walked off the carpet and toward the hallway that led to the theater.
Dash’s vision blurred as he picked up the pace and nearly sprinted toward the signs for the bathrooms. The smell of buttery popcorn nauseated him. He passed other people in suits and gowns along the way, knocking shoulders and muttering apologies. He just needed to be completely alone. So when he went into the single-stall bathroom, he locked it behind him and leaned against the door.
He took in deep, panicked gulps of air. He couldn’t calm his breathing, and there was a ringing in his ears. He wasn’t sure if he could even make sense of his own thoughts over the deafening sound.
How had a reporter found out about his stint in rehab? Who had told them? There were strict NDAs the staff at the facility had signed to make sure no one ever found out he’d been there. AA was anonymous, and while he supposed someone in the group could’ve leaked his secret, what awful person would do something like that?
He hadn’t told anyone, other than Chris and...fuck. His goddamn TikTok stalker knew he was in recovery.
He pulled out his phone, opened the TikTok app, and went to his messages.
@craftycindyDon’t ignore me.
@craftycindywhat did I do wrong?? You trusted me, what changed?
@craftycindyis it your “girlfriend”?
@craftycindyI can find her too, you know
@tokcrafty2meLeave me alone or I will call the cops
He bit the bottom of his lip so hard he tasted blood. That had been his last message to her. A threat to call the cops—which he had no intention of really doing. Had that pushed her to tell the press his secret? What else did they know?
Then there was a knock. And two more. And finally, his mom’s terse voice through the door. “Dash, open up.”
He swallowed back another new lump in his throat, unlocked the door, and let her in.
She swiftly shut and locked the door behind her. She towered over him in stilettos, and he avoided her gaze.
“You ran.” Her tone was measured and matter-of-fact. “When that reporter asked you about abusing drugs, you practically ran off the red carpet.”
He didn’t answer. Kitty always knew every single thing that went on with her children, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words out loud. He’d wanted to tell his mother about being sober, but on his own terms and his own time, when he was ready. And in that moment, standing in a blue suit with the bow tie she’d picked for him, and sweat pooling under his arms in the fluorescent bathroom lighting, he didn’t feel ready to talk about his addiction issues.
“I see.” Kitty’s hand went to her temple, and she lightly touched a spot there. Then she shook her shoulders out and put a hand on Dash’s arm. “Are you okay?”
He looked up, surprised to hear concern in her voice. “I’m not, no.”
He hadn’t expected to tell her the truth, but when his mom knew something, she was like a human lie detector, and there was no sense in hiding from her in that moment.
She exhaled sharply, then wrapped him in a hug. He let her, and as she held him there, his body began to shake, but this time he was fighting against tears that he couldn’t hold back. And he cried into the shoulder of her dress for what felt like several minutes.
“Your dress.” He pulled away from her and there was a large wet stain across her shoulder.
“There are jackets for this exact kind of thing.” She stroked a hand through his hair. “Dash, look at me.”
